Restless Nights
by Yoru Writes
Summary: All Nate wants is to be left alone with only his booze for company, but Eliot refuses to comply. SLASH! Don't read if you dislike m/m. Set after the 4th season, sometime before the first episode of season 5. Some spoilers. Features an OC.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Leverage, its characters, or make any sort of profit. **

**A/N: Hello there! This is my first fanfic on here, so I hope you like it! I've been dying to do a Leverage story, and I cannot get Nate & Eliot out of my head! Hence the birth of this story. Any reviews (constructional cristicisms, compliments, the works) are welcome!**

Ch. 1: A Sunday Morning

Nathan Ford found himself alone and leaning against his kitchen bar in his apartment, a month after his father's death. Latimer and Dubenich were finally gone...Now everyone was taking a break. Parker and Hardison were traveling around the world, Sophie was completely off the grid, Eliot often disappeared for weeks at a time, only to return beat up and bruised, and then would promptly leave again. This meant that Nate had nobody to look at him in disgust while he drank his sorrows away, try in vain to plead with him to talk about his father's death, pester him into giving up the Bourbon for his family of thieves...

There was a knock at the door, startling Nate out of his thoughts. "It's open," He croaked. He cleared his throat and sipped his whiskey. Eliot stalked into the room, slinking across the floor like a panther, emanating power. Nate's primal instincts screamed 'run, run, RUN!', but his logic held him in his place. Eliot went straight for the fridge and withdrew a bear, the last of his stash from his last visit. He popped it open with a thick finger and took a large swig.

"Eliot," Nate said in surprise. Eliot slid into a seat.

"Nate," Eliot replied shortly in his husky voice. Another drink.

"What was it this time? Sri Lanka? Paris? Tokyo?" Nate asked. Eliot just gave him a frightening glare that barely masked the secretive glint in his eyes. He finished his bear and tossed the bottle into the trash by the fridge behind him. A muffled crashing sound marked his success.

"So, what's up the others?" Eliot inquired. His accent was less prominent than Nate remembered.

"On vacation," Nate quipped. Eliot rolled his eyes. Nate finished his whiskey in a single swoop.

"Still drinkin'? When're ya gonna suck it up? He's dead, Nate," Eliot growled. There was his accent, Nate thought. He just gave Eliot a look and walked over to his living room. He sunk his thin frame gracefully into his comfortable chair. Eliot watched the older man, noting how much weight he'd lost.

"Eliot," Nathan Ford warned, not looking at the younger man. He turned on the computer effortlessly; watching Hardison at work had its perks. The screen lit up, showing his search engine. He picked up the keyboard and typed in a few choice words. Next came up a movie. Eliot started as the microwave beeped; he hadn't noticed it on. He glanced at Nate, who ignored him and started the movie. Eliot brought the pop-corn in. The movie was in black-and-white, causing Eliot to groan inwardly. But then the title came up: Casablanca. Eliot grinned, not bothering to wonder how Nate knew it was his favorite (or even how he'd planned for Eliot to be there in the first place). They sat in silence as the movie rolled, Nate's delicate hand reaching over for pop-corn once in awhile.

As the end credits rolled, Eliot placed the empty bowl on the table. He sneaked a look at Nate and was amused to see him fast asleep. The younger man hadn't noticed. He turned the TV-thingy off and wrapped his arms around Nate; he braced himself and picked the older man up. Eliot had expected Nate to be light, but he was frighteningly light. He'd lost a lot more weight than it seemed, since his clothes hung off him.

Eliot laid Nate in his bed and stared at him. Asleep, he seemed ten years younger; a smooth face, his dark curls splayed out under his head. The younger man pulled Nate's outer clothes off, stripping him down to his tank top and boxers. Eliot was shocked at how in-shape Nate was; his time in prison had been a good thing for his health, that was sure. Nate was lean, not thin, as he'd originally thought. Eliot pulled the covers around his leader and left the apartment, making sure everything was turned off and locked.

Nate woke up to a slight headache. He got up, showered, and dressed. He cleaned up what little mess he'd made. He guessed Eliot had gone for another job already, and so was completely dumbfounded when Eliot barged in without knocking. Nate made a mental note to change his locks. Eliot carried in some groceries and set them down on the counter. He immediately started cooking. Nate stared at him, drinking the alcohol-free orange juice Eliot had set out.

"What're you doing, Eliot?" Nate asked querulously. Eliot turned on the blender, stalling his answer for a good five  
minutes.

"Cookin'," Eliot grunted. Nate just stared, blue eyes flashing. Eliot turned and smoothly slid a plate in front of Nate. What  
sat before him was a cheese omelet with tomato, cilantro, and two bacon slices on top. It came with a fruit smoothie.

Nate took a bite, flavor flooding his taste-buds. He groaned and gushed, "It's delicious. Thank you, Eliot." Eliot's bright smile spread ear to ear.

Eliot joined him and they ate in companionable silence. Neither one was actually the type to talk, each preferring to just enjoy the other's company.

Nate finally spoke, "How long until you leave again?"

Eliot shrugged, finishing up the dishes. Nate couldn't deny that he watched the younger man's muscular back as he held back his strength to carefully put away the now-clean dishes. He most certainly would never admit to the shameful feelings this Hitter gave him. He wasn't that much older than him, but he was supposed to be in love with Sophie (or whatever her name was; she still refused to tell him). He looked at his hands when Eliot turned back to him.

"You'll be the first to know, though," Eliot added. Nate looked up with a confused look, then his earlier question hit him. He nodded.

"Of course, I'd find out anyway. How was Texas?" Nate replied, voice silky-smooth. He walked away before Eliot could answer, the Hitter's mouth agape in shock. He wondered-not for the first time-how in the hell Nate had figured out where he'd been.

"H-how?" was all he could say. Nate was already long gone. Eliot went downstairs and saw Nate talking to a man. He pegged the man as ex-military, Navy Seal, retired young, rich, handsome. He was around Nate's age. Eliot sauntered over to them.

"Ah! Roland, meet Charles Tompkins. Charlie, meet Roland Mathers, an old friend of mine," Nate introduced. The way he said 'friend' set off flags for Eliot. Then he remembered the name. Charlie? Really?

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Mathers. Feel free to call me Charlie," Eliot drawled in a thick accent.

Roland smiled a political smile, grabbing his hand roughly and giving a strong shake. "Please, call me Roland."

Eliot decided then and there that he hated this man. With a passion.


End file.
